


If Kisses Could Talk

by Lunafeather



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Episode Tag: S02E13 King, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Angst, Future Fic, Happy Ending, I need comfort after that finale, I will fix Canon with my bare hands if I have to, Ignores some shit in Canon okay, No Hurt Because Canon Did That For Us, Post Season 2, Spoilers, and no one was writing any, just go with it, so here you go, so i wrote some myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 13:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18993703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunafeather/pseuds/Lunafeather
Summary: When their paths next cross for business, Rio pretends like nothing happened, like he had never been in her kitchen and in her space and in her mind. But he shows up again a week or so later, knocks on the front door and waits until he’s invited in, hovers in her living room or her kitchen or at the foot of the stairs, somehow crowds into her space and grazes his fingers against her chin or through her hair or at the back of her neck. Sometimes he kisses her, sometimes he just stares, sometimes he talks like he isn’t breathing the same air.~Set About 1 Year After Season 2





	If Kisses Could Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I was devastated by the ending of the Season 2 finale and needed comfort. Unfortunately, watching Rio slowly die doesn't really inspire many people to write (and who can blame them?) so I am being the change I want to see in the world.
> 
> Assume that Beth knows Rio is alive and they are both now helming their own empires, battling for resources and clients.

The barely-even-kisses after the Event and before Now were more teeth and bite and snap than kiss. He had been inside her multiple times without much of a caress or a cuddle, had filled her with sharp thrusts and scratching nails and hoarse grunts. Anger, burning white hot and rancid, filled every movement, smothering any affection or caring or concern that dared show its face. It became a habit to come together in a hissing tirade, unslinging belts and yanking zippers down and shoving clothing aside until there was just enough space to come together and then fall apart.

 

This time is different.

 

They haven’t fucked in quite awhile; Beth had been alarmed when she moved into his space, into his face, and he had backed down -- ever since the Event, he never backed down. He always matched her ire, spat back her venom. But this time he had bit his lip and cooled in the space of a breath, like a crackling fire extinguished. His eyelids had drooped, and he had let his gaze drop to her mouth, and then he had fled, leaving her bereft and hot and unfulfilled.

 

She hadn’t dared try anything since then, and neither had he. They settled into a stalemate, occasionally exchanging heated glances or harsh whispers, but he carefully kept three feet of space between them, like he was afraid he would melt in her flame.

 

This time, he finds her at home. He hasn’t been here in a year, at least, having kept polite, professional distance for the first time since they’ve met. She would crack a joke at his expense, but is too caught up by the fact that he knocked -- at the front door, no less. When she picks her jaw up off the floor, she finally takes him in; a dark blue t shirt hidden beneath a black hoodie, half zipped and hood half on-half off, black jeans, and black sneakers. His hands are buried in the jacket pockets, any friendliness buried beneath careful blankness.

 

“Hey.” She feels stupid the second it comes out of her mouth.

 

But he says, “Hey,” like maybe she isn’t.

 

They stare at each other for a moment until he arches an eyebrow.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

“Oh!” She jolts, like coming out of a trance, and steps out of the way to let him in. “Yeah, sorry.”

 

He saunters in in that way only he can, long, smooth steps and relaxed shoulders. They stop in the foyer and hover again, caught in each other’s eyes. Rio licks his lips, shifts his weight. Beth can’t help but twist the hem of her sweater between her fingers.

 

“Do you… want some tea?”

 

He shrugs, tilts his head a little. She takes it as a yes and wanders into the kitchen, doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know he’s followed. The hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention, hyper aware of where he lingers at the edge of the island. She bends to take the kettle out of a bottom cabinet and when she straightens, he’s suddenly there at her elbow, startling a quiet yelp from her. She can smell him, when he’s this close, and it makes her stomach wobble, the scent so familiar and so comforting and yet also so divisive. He looms, careful and calm, hood now hanging on his shoulders, brows furrowing just a little and dark eyes fixed intently on her face. She feels like a deer caught in a hunter’s scope.

 

A touch at her wrist -- he’s taking the kettle from her and settling it on the stove top, and then those same fingers are at her temple, his pinky dragging against her skin, pushing her hair from her face, the sensation so achingly familiar that she feels tears gather at the corners of her eyes. It’s been more than a year since he’s touched her this way, since he’s looked at her like she is a prized puzzle, eager and desperate to dismantle her and figure her out.

 

She’s holding her breath, she realizes. She tries to release it slowly, but it stutters out in surprise when his head ducks closer to hers. His mouth is so close, so tempting -- he stops a sigh away, drinking her in and reveling in that heady energy that seems to bind them to one another. Her mind is screaming a thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea -- you shot him, he doesn’t trust you, you’re business rivals, he used you, you shot him _three times_ , this is a trap, it’s a trap, it’s a -- _oh._

 

The barest brush of his mouth against hers. She doesn’t remember closing her eyes, but she is very aware of her hands coming up to drag along his biceps, feather light and hesitant, almost afraid that if she presses too hard he’ll shatter. He doesn’t touch her except where his lips rub against hers. She’s having a hard time believing this is really happening, that she didn’t fall asleep at her desk like she’s prone to these days. When his kiss becomes just a tad more insistent, she hums with pleasure, her palms moving to his front.

 

The second her palms find his chest, Rio jerks away as if scalded. His eyes are clouded and dazed -- maybe he doesn’t really believe this is happening either. Before she can even open her mouth to ask if he’s alright, he bolts, darting past her to the back door and disappearing through the yard.

 

Beth stands in that spot for a long time, fingers stroking where his beard tickled her skin.

 

* * *

 

When their paths next cross for business, Rio pretends like nothing happened, like he had never been in her kitchen and in her space and in her mind. But he shows up again a week or so later, knocks on the front door and waits until he’s invited in, hovers in her living room or her kitchen or at the foot of the stairs, somehow crowds into her space and grazes his fingers against her chin or through her hair or at the back of her neck. Sometimes he kisses her, sometimes he just stares, sometimes he talks like he isn’t breathing the same air.

 

Weeks pass, and the visits become more frequent and the conversations, too. He eventually lets her actually make tea, eventually lets her serve it, eventually drinks it. She makes snacks sometimes, and sometimes he catches her at the tail end of preparing dinner.

 

He always leaves out the backdoor, and usually suddenly.

 

Two months after the first time he dropped by, they’re on the couch sipping bourbon. The kids are with Dean at his apartment -- that 2 by 3 thing fell apart alarmingly fast -- and she’s woefully without her girls. Rio sometimes seems to know exactly when to show up, and she was unable to smother the smile that erupted when she heard the tell tale knock at the door.

 

She’s cross legged and facing him, her shoulder against the back of the couch and the shot glass at her lips. She peers over the rim at him, soaking in the sharp angles of his features and the beard he’s taken to sporting. He’s relaxed and pensive, his glass held at his knee.

 

It bubbles up out of nowhere, all of the sudden. They never talked about it, almost silently agreed to leave it alone, but it’s there at the back of her tongue, clawing its way out of her throat and through her mouth.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He jerks, surprised and a little startled, and she feels a bit guilty for dragging him from his thoughts. That gaze, those eyes -- dark and intense and clear. When he says, “For what, ma?” she knows that he already knows.

 

And she knows she owes it to him to say it anyway.

 

“For shooting you. I’m sorry.”

 

He just studies her, no emotion on his face. “Yeah?”

 

She knows the second the blush blooms across her cheekbones, feels it slide down her neck. Still, still… she owes him this much at least. “Yeah.” A swallow, then, “I’m sorry for shooting you and leaving you with Turner.”

 

Something in his eyes, then. Hurt, maybe. Anger, definitely. But it flees as quickly as it came. “Aight.”

 

Beth stares. Is it that simple? She knows him better than that. “I only did it because I thought you were--”

 

He holds up his free hand and she stops.

 

“Let’s just start with I’m sorry, yeah?”

 

Beth swallows again, gulping down the explanations and excuses, forcing them to sit in her gut and fester. She nods, and he looks satisfied.

 

They don’t say much more -- he asks after Kenny and his math (he doesn’t need a tutor anymore), wonders if Emma has begun to embrace pants (she has not). Beth inquires about Marcus’ t-ball skills, earning herself a fond chuckle and a rumbling rendition of his son’s latest foray onto the baseball diamond.

 

She almost forgets about the apology - almost, _almost_ \-- until they’re standing at the alcohol cabinet, and Beth is on her toes as she nudges the bourbon bottle back into place. She feels a ghost of a touch at the base of her spine and freezes.

 

“I’m sorry, too,” he murmurs.

 

He doesn’t kiss her that night. He does slide his fingers along hers, reminiscent of so many duffel bag exchanges.

 

It’s somehow more intimate than his mouth on hers. She falls asleep cradling that hand on her chest.

 

* * *

 

He pops up on a Sunday morning a month later, diligently knocking and waiting for his invite inside, and he gives her a once over when he sees her in her jammies and robe. Her look in response is a clear rebuttal of any snark he may try to throw at her. He follows her inside and -- without a word -- settles on a stool at the island as she pulls out the kettle.

 

They have this dance down to a T, now. Knock, silent greeting, kettle, tea. Sometimes they spritz in a snack or a meal, sometimes a conversation.

 

Rio seems solemn today, and Beth doesn’t push. She’s learned when to prod and when to leave well enough alone. It only took almost two years.

 

She wraps her hands around her mug and sips and watches him, watches him watch her. It’s a familiar scene with them now, and she’s come to cherish these moments of calm between them, the moments where they aren’t at each other’s throats and fighting over clients or resources. He doesn’t drink, just gazes at her -- it sets off a fire in her belly, warmth spreading through her limbs. When it seems like he doesn’t blink for a very long time, she bumps her shoulder against his and says softly, “You okay?”

 

He chuckles, a little humorlessly, looks down at his tea as his lips twist in that wry way he has a habit of doing, then looks up at her through his lashes. “Yeah, ma, I’m good.”

 

His gaze lingers, warm, burning, striking against her skin like a match. Rio always manages to say so much with just a glance, somehow touches her without moving a muscle. It’s unnerving, it’s exhilarating. It makes her feel _seen_. She can’t say she’s ever felt seen the way she does when he looks at her.

 

Beth knows this is dangerous. She stopped telling Annie and Ruby about his visits because of the concerned faces they’d flash each other when they thought she couldn’t see. Their judgement was like a cloying cloud and it always took too long to shake it off. It’s easier this way, to keep it a secret. It’s easier to pretend this is healthy, that it makes sense. That it isn’t a house of cards ready to collapse at the barest of trembles. That he’s just a guy and she’s just a girl, and can’t she make it anymore obvious?

 

They kiss more often now, more deeply, more passionately. She knows not to touch his chest, to avoid the place where she shot him three times. As long as she doesn’t go near his chest, the kissing keeps going, the touching keeps going. She tries not to hope for it because she doesn’t want to be disappointed, but him invading her space and finding her mouth with his happens more often than not, these days.

 

Today, though, he just looks. Watches with that smoldering gaze, holding her hostage until she finishes her tea and finally convinces herself to stand.

 

“I have some laundry to do, I’d always appreciate some help.” At his raised eyebrow, “Or you can just watch.”

 

He doesn’t follow her at first. She gets a little lost in sorting clothes into piles; brights, darks, whites, delicates. She dumps each pile into the laundry baskets at the foot of her bed and looks up to see Rio leaning languidly against the door frame, eyes dark and guarded. Something feels different today, charged and molten and new. It washes over her when he slowly approaches, when he stops in front of her and stares steadily into her eyes. He’s inches away but refusing to touch her. She waits him out, calm facade belying the _thump, thump, thump_ , rabbit fast pounding of her heart. She reckons that he remembers what he does to her, the spell she so easily falls prey to, but he doesn’t seem to pay that any mind, doesn’t seem to revel in her captivation.

 

He does lick his lips, drawing the lower one between his teeth. The corner of his mouth twitches when he lifts his hand to her face, and she doesn’t see what happens next because her eyes flutter closed and she stutters out a breath as he drags his index finger along her cheek bone, pushing a long lock of hair behind her ear and cupping her jaw. He doesn’t tug -- he doesn’t have to. She knows what he wants, knows what she wants, so she drifts forward and up onto her toes, his palm against her face steadying her.

 

A brush becomes a press becomes a slide, lips moving against each other until Rio’s tongue licks at her, and what starts as gently passionate becomes _raging_ passionate, teeth and tongues and gasping, open mouths. They’ve never gotten this far, never let it get this out of control, and Beth thinks about pulling back, about stepping away, but no -- no, Rio’s fingers are yanking her shirt up away from her pants so that he can press his palms to the smooth skin of her back and she couldn’t fight the moan that empties into the kiss even if she wanted to.

 

He bites across her jaw to her ear, nibbles on the spot right behind it that makes her arch into him, chest to chest, hip to hip. When his hands dip into her pants to grab at her ass, she gasps his name and he sinks his teeth into her shoulder. They grind against each other like teenagers for a moment, Beth’s fingers twisted into the sleeves of his jacket, until she grows impatient and shoves him back far enough that she can tug the zipper of his hoodie down.

 

 _We’re doing this, we’re really doing this_.

 

He kisses her as she strips his jacket off, groaning when she bites his lip, and helps her out of her robe and then her top. He sucks kisses down her neck and across her collarbone until his face is buried in her cleavage; she affectionately cradles the back of his head as he just breathes her in, scratches her nails along his scalp until he rumbles out a noise of contentment. They stay like that for a moment, just absorbing each other.

 

She knows he’s ready to continue when he starts to mouth at her breasts, tugging at the edge of her bra with his teeth. He’s insistent, eager, his hands sliding up her back to her bra clasp and easily unhooking it. He stops her when she goes to slip the straps down her arms. He cups her elbows and she’s surprised, caught off guard by the way he stares deeply into her eyes like he’s looking for something, like he’s asking her soul a question and the answer lays behind deep blue irises. Beth gazes steadily back. She feels the weight of the moment, and she desperately doesn’t want to fail this test.

 

She must pass because he licks at his lips and drops his hands while she shucks her bra. When he goes to lift his shirt, her stomach lurches -- she hasn’t… not since… she hasn’t seen him naked since before…

 

Rio waits until she meets his eye before stripping the shirt off. She can’t help the gasp that slips out, tries to stifle it but knows he’s heard it. Guilt floods her, filling her up until tears prick her eyes. Three puckered scars dapple his chest, a poor man’s Orion’s Belt. One to the right of his heart on his sternum, the second below that and slightly to the right, the last a tiny bit lower and to the left.

 

Her hands lift to touch the bared skin, but she freezes before she makes contact. Her eyes rise again, seeking his, seeking permission. She did this to him, and she isn’t sure she has the right to comfort him, the right to explore the damage. A weighted pause -- and the smallest of nods.

 

Warm, tan skin marred by three white starbursts. Beth shudders out a breath as her fingertips drag along the edge of one of the puckered scars, tracing its outline and then ghosting over the hollow center. She does this to each one, cataloging the way Rio trembles a little at the touch.

 

She closes her eyes against an onslaught of memories, memories she shoved down so deeply that they tear at her intestines as they’re drawn out.

 

Rio’s face appearing with the removal of the bag over her head, the huge empty room around her with darkness curling into its corners. Turner crumpled, broken and beaten on the ground and tied to a support beam. Rio’s snark, thrown like darts at her fragile grasp of reality. His fingers brushing hers as he passed her his golden gun. Yelling, so much yelling, tears streaming down her cheeks and her body quivering. Rio commanding her to shoot Turner, the bile rising her throat at the thought, at the begging in the bound man’s eyes.

 

And then that split second decision that she hasn’t stopped regretting -- Rio losing his temper and lunging at her, her squeezing the trigger on instinct. She didn’t mean to, she didn’t mean to. Terror had gripped her so strongly that she was convinced he was going to hurt her, he was going to strangle her and bury her body in someone’s yard, and she squeezed and that _bang_ , so loud it echoed in her ears for days.

 

Then there was his growl of pain and rage, how he stumbled forward and she fired again and again -- he had to stay away, he had to stop, she had to stop him. She could do _something_ right. She thought he was crazed.

 

Maybe he was.

 

Everything after that was a blur, like time had stopped, froze, then lurched forward and sped up until it went so fast she couldn’t feel her body, she couldn’t even _think_. Bits came back later, that she had untied Turner and given him Rio’s gun, that she had fled and then somehow managed to get home.

 

She surfaces from the memories like she’s rising from the depths of the ocean. Tears blur her vision and she blinks furiously, sniffling. Her palm is pressed flat on his chest so that it covers all three scars. Rio’s hands come up to cup her face, his thumbs wiping at the wetness on her cheeks. He doesn’t say anything, just watches her, his face vulnerable and open. She doesn’t know that she’s ever seen him this way before.

 

Heart thumping, she leans forward until her front is pressed to his. He doesn’t let go of her face, simply slides his fingers a little into her hair. One breath, two breaths, three and she moves her hand to press her lips to the top scar, then to the second, then the third. Rio doesn’t even give her the opportunity to lean back before he’s hauling her up onto her toes so that he can kiss her deeply.

 

If kisses could talk…

 

The rest of their clothes come off quickly. Rio turns them and shoves her back onto the bed before climbing over her, his expression hungry and his smirk wolfish. He kisses down her neck to her chest and drags his mouth restlessly there until he picks a spot’s he satisfied with, where he bites down, hard. Beth keens, arching up and scrabbling against his shoulders. He lavishes the spot with his tongue and sucks and nips until there’s a mark, and then he shifts a little lower and a little to the right and does it again -- and one last time, down a tiny bit and over to the left a smidge.

 

He sits up to judge his handiwork, panting and flushed. When she sits up to see, it takes her a second -- oh.

 

_Oh._

 

He marked her in the same spots as his scars.

 

Their eyes meet, and his face is vulnerable again but also heavy with emotion and she’s struck by the pain she sees there. She presses her forehead to his, takes a deep breath, slowly lets it out and hears him do the same.

 

And then his mouth is on hers again, rough, desperate, needy. She kisses him like her life depends on it, pours the longing and hurt and anger and hope she’s felt over the last year into it. Rio nudges her back down so that he can cover her body with his, their lips still moving together, and leans on one elbow so that he can grope his free hand along her waist. Beth rolls her hips up, blindly seeking some kind of friction, blindly seeking his body. He slips one thigh between hers to give her what she needs and she moans in gratitude, rocking against him and earning herself a groan in response.

 

When his fingers find her drenched and wanting, he wastes no time joining their bodies, sinking oh so slowly into wet heat, hooking one of her legs high up around his waist.

 

The last year had been filled with vengeful, hurried sex; Beth had been bent over many desks and counters, lifted and pinned against many walls, had shoved Rio into many chairs and climbed into his lap.

 

There’s a certain bliss in releasing that anguish, that agony, that hate, in taking your sweet time and enjoying every touch and every movement, every languid thrust.

 

Beth buries her face in Rio’s neck, sinking her teeth into his shoulder when he starts to pick up the pace, when their bodies demand more. Warmth blooms from her chest through her belly and her thighs, sweeps her up in a wave of emotion and pleasure -- and combined with that deliciously perfect roll of her hips against his, she comes apart, her body tingling when his free hand moves to intertwine with hers. He’s not far behind, never usually is. He shudders and collapses on top of her, face hidden by her hair.

 

She drags her fingers lazily across his back, soothing him as much as herself. He hums contentedly and wiggles a little until his head is pillowed on her breasts.

 

“Damn, mama, forgot how soft you are.”

 

It’s a doze induced murmur but it still sends tendrils of joy along her skin.

 

Sleep envelops them at some point; Beth startles awake to the sun sitting low in the windows. Rio hasn’t budged, head still on her chest. His arm is now curled around her waist, holding her close.

 

It doesn’t seem real, for a moment. The rosy light of sunset washes the room in gold, making Rio’s brown skin glow, his tattoos like emblems of black. The things they didn’t say, the things they definitely felt -- well, that she definitely felt. She’s not so sure about him.

 

The scars in his chest. Disparate, broken skin, all her doing. Her hubris.

 

A hum and Rio comes awake, seemingly from a deep sleep. He stretches slowly and yawns, then appears to catch himself -- the recognition flickers on his face. She holds her breath…

 

...and a bright smile unfurls. She’s struck by how breathtaking it is.

 

He climbs up her body. “Ay, you sleep well, baby?”

 

She doesn’t realize she’s grinning back until their teeth collide and they devolve into laughter. He doesn’t let her answer.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a few days before she sees him again, though he manages to start a conversation or two through text. She feels ashamed to say that she’s surprised, but she _is_. Casually chatting with Rio was never a common thing, before.

 

Before.

 

They can’t go back to before.

 

Not now.

 

He still knocks, but this time when she opens the door he swoops down to brush his lips against hers. She giggles, blushing as she lets him past, surprised by his easy intimacy. She could get used to this.

 

Garlic and lemon fills the house with their delicious aromas, and for once its Beth following Rio into the kitchen where he snoops in the oven to see what’s cooking.

 

“Your kids comin’ back tonight?”

 

She leans against the island and smiles shyly at him. “No. I was making it for you. And I. For us. For dinner.”

 

He smirks, that fond, sweet twitch of his mouth, his eyes sparkling. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Crowding into her space, he lifts his hand to brush her hair from her eyes. “It smells good, mama.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Rio touches her hand, curling his fingers around it, tracing the lines on her palm, content with just touching her and not saying a word.

 

But she can’t stop thinking about their past, about what she did, what he did. What they’ve done.

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

He nods, distracted by her fate line. He drags his fingernail along it. She represses a shiver.

 

“Are we good?”

 

That gets his attention. “We good?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

If she didn’t know him as well as she does, she might have missed that wicked twinkle in his eye. “Whatchu mean?”

 

She fixes him with a pointed stare. “You know exactly what I mean.”

 

“You mean, we good like this?” He presses against her from shoulder to knees, still cradling her palm in one hand, the other going to her hip and curving around to her ass. She opens her mouth to protest when he kisses her deeply, lazily licking into her mouth and curling his tongue against hers.

 

She moans, arches up into him.

 

Remembers what they’re supposed to be talking about.

 

Pinches him viciously in the side.

 

He jerks away, laughing, and catches her mouth again for a peck before leaning back and settling her with a serious look. “We been through some shit, yeah? I feel like we’re pretty even, especially with your hustle these last few months. I got some good wins.”

 

“You mean you _stole_ some--”

 

He tips his head back and laughs, sharp and absolutely tickled. “You know, to-may-toe, to-mah-toe.”

 

Her eyes narrow. “I’m not sure that’s how that works.”

 

“Well… you shot me, so I think it’s fair that I get to decide, huh?”

 

For a second she freezes -- the last year he had brought up the shooting _many_ times, always under the guise of humor and jest, but she could feel the pain and rage beneath the laugh. Now, though… his eyes crinkle at the corners with mirth, and that affectionate smile is back. She lets her breath out slowly and tips forward until her forehead is against his chin.

 

“So can we stop all this, ‘if you wanna be the king, you gotta kill the king’ talk?”

 

She can feel his smile widen.

 

“Nah.”

 

Her head snaps back. “Why?”

 

His eyes are soft, but that twinkle is just as bright. “Cause I still need to find my Queen.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my bud who occasionally beta's for me and is always cheering me on, [ConvolutedConcussion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedconcussion) [(Johnisntevendead on Tumblr) ](https://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com)
> 
> And thank you to [FlashIndie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashindie) [(Pynkhues on Tumblr)](https://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) for the idea for this fic! We basically described the first time Beth sees Rio's scars in unison, and that's when I knew that it had to be written. Your input helped me churn this out on no sleep in almost 30 hours.


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